The Fatal Mistake
by FMAfletch
Summary: Britain is facing off Italy for one final time in Kiev, Ukraine. Will he succeed? Rated T for Britain's language. Slight USUK.


I'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSOSORRY!

I know, I said that I was going to get Maleficium up soon, and I am working on it, but chapter two is much longer than I anticipated plus my computer was in the shop for a while and I recently graduated from high school, so everything is topsy turvey. But rest assured I AM working on it! This is just more Hetalia-ness that you can chew on while I continue writing the monster that is chapter two of Maleficium.

Also to the people who are waiting for another Uta Pri story, rest assured that I am also writing that one. :) Don't worry. Everything is being worked on and should be up veeery soon! Thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy this small morsel of Hetalia. Thank you!

~fletch~

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to own Hetalia or any of the characters. This is completely fan made!

_Kiev, Ukraine_

Britain panted heavily. This was not how he expected this battle to go. After all, he was up against that coward, Italy. Should this really be so difficult? The fool must have trained more than Arthur had thought. He cursed quietly.

Britain's men were bruised and bloodied. Arthur was exhausted. He looked around at his team, mud splattered on their clothes. They looked forlornly at him. This fight had lasted longer than anyone had ever thought possible. Now they were in the final stages and the outcome was suddenly uncertain. Britain's face hardened, sweat gleaming on his forehead. He wouldn't lose. His eyes narrowed. He c_ouldn't_ lose.

His mind flooded with the possible maneuvers the Italian could use to distract him. His vision was already hazy from the constant moving he had gone through. What _if_ he lost? Britain suppressed the urge to groan. What would his people think? He took a deep breath. What would America think? Arthur's determination solidified and he kept his eyes fixated on the Italians.

Italy smiled happily across from him, despite the fact that he was just as broken and his men were just as exhausted. How the hell could he smile so easily? Why was he so bouncy? Did he think this was just a game? Britain cursed quietly under his breath. Cocky bastard.

Before Britain could say anything, Italy took several steps back. Britain tensed, preparing himself.

Italy pulled his leg back and shot. Britain calculated it perfectly and dived. He grazed his knee as he collided with the tough grass. His eyes were closed momentarily and he wearily stood up to the roar of the crowd. It was deafening. He sighed, his heart sinking. The ball had passed him, nestled safely in the net. He failed.

As if only to further his confirmation, Italy was lifted high into the air by his team. They cheered loudly at their victory, the crowd joining in with them in a congealed cacophony of sounds.

Over the roar, Britain could hear the Italian cry: "We get to fight Germany in the semi-finals!" his joyous laughter following Britain to the locker room.

Britain had lost to Italy in the UEFA football tournament and America would never let him live it down.

Britain trudged to the back of the locker room, secluding himself from the team as Roy came in to speak to the players. He vaguely acknowledged the other team members as they greeted him and completely ignored them as they began changing.

He sat down hard on the wooden bench, trying not to curse more than he already had. They had lost. On penalties! He felt like throwing the water bottle he had just removed from his locker. God dammit! Who thought it was a good idea to have penalties decide the winner of a game? He grumbled quietly to himself and dabbed his soaked forehead and neck with a towel.

Britain sighed and slowly laid down on the cold wooden bench. Complaining about what he, or the rest of the team, had done wrong was only going to bring their morale down even lower. Britain thought about what they had accomplished in order to subside his own frustration. The team had gone further in the tournament than they had in a long time. The game was well fought and they had done exceedingly well. No one had scored on either side in over two hours. If it wasn't down to penalties...! Britain threw the towel on the ground in anger.

"God dammit!" he swore, running his hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and tried to control his ragged breathing and his racing heart. _It wasn't fair, _he thought childishly. He knew his team was better than any other out there, so why...? He groaned and laid back down on the bench. America was going to make fun of him for sure. He could almost hear the raucous laughter.

A loud buzz emanated from his locker and Britain groaned again. _Speak of the devil..._Britain pulled himself up to a sitting position and reached for his phone. "New text from America" blinked happily on the screen. Britain ignored the way his heart skipped a beat when he saw the obnoxious American's photo and opened it with a sigh. _Here we go._

But what was inside surprised him.

_yo, saw u lost to italy. sucks dude. at least u gt fifa, ya?_

Britain blinked. What, no gloating? No rudeness? That was...rare, to say the least. He was even encouraging him, sort of. Britain's eyebrows knitted together. _What the hell?_ He thought. Could it be that America was being kind instead of crass? _He was actually trying to be nice._ A small smile tugged on Britain's lips.

**Thanks, America.**

_ya, soccer is for dumbasses anyway. real, american football is a man's sport! amiright?_

Britain's small smile immediately disappeared.

_Nope, America is still just an idiot._

THE END

Stupid ending is stupid.

Again, sorry for the delays! I hope you enjoyed this short little story about Britain playing UEFA soccer against Italy. They both played beautifully and Britain should be proud. :)

Expect a chapter of Maleficium up soon and the Uta Pri fic up soon after. Thank you all for your patience!

Please read and review. Reviews make me puke rainbows and keep me writing! :D

~fletch~


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